Dancing Barefoot (20 page)

The love she'd felt for him in the past rushed to present in an overwhelming flood of emotion. She grabbed the back of his head and held him close. Who cared about convention or timing or reality? She never wanted to let him go again, who cared if that went against everything she'd ever believed about herself? She wanted Jacques Sinclair in her life. Period.

"I want the world to know it is me in the book and in the photographs. I want to stand by your side on Saturday night. If I lose my job, then I'll find another because I'm damn good at what I do but..." she grinned when he smiled..."
I'm not letting you go again."

"It won't be easy, could get dirty."

"I can handle it."

"I don't want you to need to handle anything. I wanted to date you, romance you—"

"Still can. I'm all up for the dating and romancing." She grinned against his chin.

"Your mother will hate me."

"She hates me, too, so we'll be her common enemy."

"
You keep surprising me. I can't figure you out."

She smiled against his mouth. "Kiss me before I change my mind and toss your ass out."

"I knew you weren't just a tourist," he whispered before kissing her as if the world was ending around them and they only had moments to live.

He unzipped the back of her dress and peeled it down her shoulders
, revealing the rise of her breasts over the bra. His mouth ravaged her neck, nipping, sucking, licking. The dress pinned her arms to her side, making it impossible to touch him.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of her dress and pulled the panties down her thighs and over the boots. His other hand reached inside her bra as he backed her against the back of the sofa.

"I want to touch you," she muttered as his hands cupped her breasts.

He flashed her a smile, a thick strand of blond hair falling over his eyes, before his other hand unzipped his jeans. "
Are you really mine, Jess? Do you truly want me in your life no matter what happens?"

"Come hell or high water." She matched his smile.

"Hell has come."

He twisted her around and fucked her from behind. He bit into her shoulder. She rocked her hips back toward his, her
boot-clad leg curving around the back of his thigh wanting him close. Her arms pinned between their joined bodies, dress acting like a rope.

Well, if it was all about the sex, who the hell cared? She laughed, breathless, as an orgasm ripped through her body.

He laughed, too, against the back of her neck. "I will never get enough of you."

"Not even if I join the PTA and drive a minivan one day?" She twisted her head to look at him through the veil of her hair.

He thrust again, still inside of her, wrapped his arms around body, and kissed her through the strands of hair.

They kissed, eyes wide open, the meaning of her asking him to stay despite the odds hanging on their lips
.

* * *

"I could easily stay upstairs," Kevin said after giving himself a tour. "Your upstairs' space is bigger than my New York apartment."

"You're not staying." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. The day was never ending.

"You can stay tonight, Stickman." Jessica smiled at his assistant like they were the best of friends. "It's late and I don't want Simone stalking you or something."

"
I planned on staying, I just thought it would be in the sofa. I didn't realize I'd have my own apartment." Kevin settled back into the chair and kicked his feet up on the footstool.

"You don't have your own apartment," Jacques corrected him.

"We'll see." Kevin winked at Jessica. "I'm glad I finally get to meet the infamous Jessica Moriarty. You're a legend. Carter has told me stories."

"I'm not sure I like being a legend." She rubbed her hands on the cushion beneath her hips. "I'm really tired. I need to call it a night, guys."

He sighed, the exhaustion of the day settling onto his shoulders. "I should call Ava."

"Tomorrow," Kevin said, his gaze locked onto Jessica who'd changed into a pair of jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. "I didn't think you'd let us stay."

"Me not us." He grinned at his friend. "She is letting
me
stay."

"Like I said...
us
." Kevin winked at her. "Aren't you concerned about getting dragged into this mess of his? I heard you're a fancy architect or something like that."

"Are you trying to change her mind?" he asked.

"Both you and Ava have called me fancy, which I am not. I can only assume Jacques called me that after seeing me last Friday. Fancy," she snorted. "You sure like to gossip these days, don't you, babe?"

"He never shuts up," Kevin said with an exaggerated sigh. "Constantly telling me stories."

He rolled his eyes at Kevin, disbelief that they were in this apartment smiling and joking with each other after Simone's big announcement. He liked how Jessica accepted Kevin's weirdness as if she'd known him all of her life.

"You're not scared of Simone? She seems to have it out for you." Kevin's grin slipped as he watched Jessica stand.

"I'm in way over my head here, I know that. My track record isn't so stellar in the relationship department. I'm a certifiable flight risk, but the alternative is unacceptable."

"Alternative?" Kevin squinted from behind his
eyeglasses.

"Letting him go again isn't an option
. It's the sex. He's like an addiction."

He laughed at her audacity. She may think of herself as a scared little rabbit—and perhaps he'd thought the same thing once
—but she had nerves of steel.

Kevin laughed, too, before waving his beer bottle in her direction. "I like you a lot, which is good because we're all going to be
roomies."

"That's not true. You're going back to New York as planned," he said.

"Plans? What plans? It seems we're living precariously from day-to-day." Kevin crossed his ankles, leaned his head back on the chair, and sighed.

"I'm exhausted
. I'm going to sleep. I have a crisis of my own to deal with in the morning." She leaned over and kissed him. "Feel free to wake me when you come to bed."

"Or you wake me in the morning...either way works." He cupped the back of her head and held her close for a moment. "Thank you."

Tears rushed into her eyes before she nodded and pulled away. Without saying another word, she left them alone.

"You thought she'd turn her back on you, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did." He admitted before reaching for the discarded pizza box. "My trust in women isn't as high as it once was, I admit that."

Kevin twirled the beer bottle on the arm of the chair and surveyed the room again. "I love this place. She owns the building? Damn. I bet she could
sell this for a lot of money. She rents out an apartment downstairs? This is prime real estate. What crisis is she dealing with at work?"

He looked ar
ound the living room and tapped his fingers on the box. "Arson."

"
That sounds serious. Is she developing a controversial project or something? Is she in danger? I can't believe she didn't mention it." Kevin leaned forward and met his gaze. "Maybe we should go. I don't like the idea that Simone is out there causing trouble while we're both shacked up here with the nicest woman I've met in years."

He smiled at that. She
had always been nice. Why was that such an underrated quality in people? He liked that she was sincerely kindhearted. No...he loved that about her.

"
Simone won't be coming after Jessica. She made it very clear that she never loved me or wanted me for the duration. Relax. She's not a homicidal lunatic." He hated feeling out of control and that's exactly what he felt like right now. "Carter is confident we can handle this with the National Geographic people? He doesn't think I'm hurting the crew by remaining affiliated?"

Kevin removed his glasses and stared at the floor between his feet. "It's been a long day, Jacques.
Let's forget all of this until morning. That daybed upstairs looks comfortable, I'm tired, and I have a movie on my iPad I've been dying to watch. Go."

"We should talk," he protested weakly.

"We talked." Kevin shrugged elaborately before motioning toward the hall. "Go. Toss my bag into the hallway and I'll get it later. Go. I'll clean up out here."

He didn't need much encouragement to go to bed.
He opened the door and stopped short of the sight of her face down on the bed, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Pain shot through every inch of him. Without hesitation, he crawled onto the bed and wrapped his arms around her.

"I didn't want it to be like this," he muttered against the side of her neck.

"I hate what happened to you." Her words were muffled against the comforter.

"It's over."

"No, it's all just beginning." She rolled to face him, rubbed a sleeve over her red face, and shook her head. "Marc is going to use this...you're not the only one who's made some mistakes. Between him and Simone...and my mom...and I'm great at fucking things up...we're in for a rocky beginning. I wanted this to be easy."

"Easy is for amateurs." He grinned even though he agreed with her anxiety.

"We're not exactly pros."

"Oh, yes, we are."
He wrapped a leg over hers and smoothed her hair back from her face.

"This baring our souls to each other thing is going to take some getting used to. I'm not sure honesty is always the best policy." She scrubbed at the tears on her face before grinning. "I never stopped loving you. It's that simple."

"Love isn't always enough."

"No, it isn't. I know." She
clutched the front of his t-shirt. Her grin turned into a laugh. "I tell you that I love you and that's your response? You're kind of a jerk."

He laughed, shocked that he could after the day he'd had. "I love you, too, but you already know that because of the book...the show...right? Didn't you say that last night?"

"I said a lot of things last night."

"I've changed, so have you, yet here we are."

They laid facing each other on the bed, legs entwined, hands linked between their bodies, and smiled for no good reason.

"Know what I want to do when this is all over and you're back from your
Amazon River trip?"

"Ah...you are making plans for the future already?"

"Let's go back to Florence. I want to see the house."

Disbelief clouded his happiness. He wanted to believe her, but as she said, this crisis was just beginning. He saw the desperation in her eyes, the need for this to be authentic, and remembered Kevin's words about living precariously day-to-day. Simone could be wicked, but Marc looked pretty shady, too.

"Right now all I want is to sleep with you. Long day." He smoothed the hair from her eyes and let his fingers linger on her forehead. From the first moment he'd seen those big blue eyes, he'd been a goner.

Something flickered in her eyes—the realization of his doubt—before she stood and walked to the bathroom. He peeled off his clothes, thoughts numb from the day, and walked into the bathroom with her. They fell into their old routine of brushing teeth and washing their faces without speaking. It was as natural as breathing.

He tossed Kevin's bag into the hallway, closed the door, and sank beneath the covers. When she turned off the light, dozens of stars illuminated the ceiling. He'd noticed them briefly last night, but he'd been too absorbed with making love with her to ask about them.

"I used to lie here at night, wondering where you were, and hoping you were okay," she whispered as if reading his mind. "Silly, I know, a grown woman with plastic stars on her ceiling."

He pulled her to his side and blinked away his own tears for all the time lost and the things he'd done that could never be undone. "It's not silly. I like knowing you thought of me like that."

He stared at the ceiling long after she
had fallen asleep and the stars' glow had faded. He wanted to believe in true love and home and all the fairy tales he had ever heard. His own parents had a great marriage, a beautiful love story, but they were one in the same, as if God had created them together. He pulled Jessica close and breathed in the scent of her hair. He'd once thought they were like that, but even now he questioned.

H
e hated himself for questioning, for not believing, yet he couldn't silence the drumbeat of doom echoing in his heart.

* * *

Chapter
Fourteen

"Do you recognize this person?" The detective had handed her a photograph of someone dressed in black jeans and a hoodie leaving the scene of the Back Bay building on a motorcycle.

It looked like her.

She frowned at the photograph and tapped her fingernails against the conference table. With a shake of her head, she pushed it toward Marc who visibly stiffened when he saw the image.

"You look like you do." The detective stared at her. "Even if it's just the first name that pops into your head, tell me."

"It looks like you, Jessica," Marc said from next to her. "I know it isn't." He rushed to say. "You were with
that photographer, right? It looks like your bike, though."

Her heart hammered against her ribcage as she ripped her gaze from the detective's to stare at Marc's profile. Although she knew she was innocent, she felt guilty as hell and didn't know why.

"Who were you with? Can he verify it?" The detective asked.

"Of course he can.
Are you saying I need an alibi?" She folded her hands beneath the table and gritted her teeth together. "This is pointless. Do you have any real leads or not?"

"The security camera across the street caught that person leaving the building an hour before the explosion. That is all we have at this point." The detective shrugged, gaze never wavering from hers. "Your firm wanted this project, didn't it? From what I understand it is quite the coup."

Marc squeezed her knee underneath the table. "We weren't privy to any of the negotiations prior to being asked to come up with a proposal."

"Aren't you a partner, Ms. Moriarty?"

"Associate partner, but only as of Monday."

"So you benefited from the
new contract? Are you saying your promotion was based on the Back Bay project?"

She moved her knee from Marc's touch and forced herself not to look away from the detective. "About the picture, you asked if I knew who that was. I don't. Me owning a motorcycle doesn't make me an arsonist."

"Who is this person who can confirm your alibi? It's just a formality." Detective O'Neil smiled reassuringly, pen poised over paper.

"Jacques Sinclair." She bit the inside of her lip. "We went to McDougal's for dinner, one of the owners, Benny, can verify that, too."

"Good, good." O'Neil smiled and nodded to his partner who remained quiet. "That's all we needed. It will be cleared as crime scene by the end of the week, we have all the evidence we need. Your crews should be able to resume work on Monday. I heard that the damage actually saved you some demolition."

What was with the men in her life blabbing every little piece of knowledge they possessed? She looked at Marc who was already agreeing with the detective and, more than that, going in to great detail.

I don't have anything to hide. I'm innocent.

The thought made her think of Jacques' ordeal in Singapore, which had been so much worse. Feeling sick to her stomach, she stood abruptly, excused herself, and walked to the restrooms.

A week ago her life had been a simple routine of take-out, happy hours, running, and late night painting sessions with a bottle of wine. Now she had the United Nations taking up residence in her house, arson issues that were beyond her area of expertise, and a best friend who was apparently selling her out.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she whispered to herself as she leaned heavily against the sink. She didn't care if she was alone or not.

Everything she'd worked and sacrificed for felt precarious. With a sigh, she shoved her hands through her hair and closed her eyes.

Counting to twenty, she breathed in and out until her heart returned to its normal
rhythm.

"Leaving like that makes you look
suspicious." Marc waited outside the ladies' room, arms crossed over his impeccable suit.

"Telling the police that the arsonist looked like me was a real classy move, Jenkins." She walked a stride ahead of him, anger pulsating through her veins like lava.

"But it's not you so why do you care?" He followed her into her office and closed the door. "If you don't have anything to hide—"

"—If?"

"—Then why does it matter if I say the person looked like you?"

She swallowed her anger. What he said made sense. She sat behind her desk and looked at him. "I'm a bit on edge today."

"I noticed." He leaned his hip on her desk and shrugged toward the glass walls that faced the wall. "Everyone can see you, door or not, so you need to get a grip and act like you not only earned this position, but like you own it. Storming out of the conference room—"

"—I didn't storm."

"—Makes you look frightened and weak. Is that what you want people to think of you? Do you want them to start whispering that you aren't able to hack it? Do you want the entire office to suspect you of being so underhanded that you'd resort to sabotage and arson just to get a promotion?"

"Of course I don't." She glanced over his shoulder toward the hallway and the cubicles beyond. "As for leaving the meeting, it had come to an end and I had nothing left to say."

"He's already affecting you. Have you bothered to look in the mirror? You look like you haven't slept in a week." He leaned forward. "Listen, I understand that you two are making up for lost time or what not, but maybe you need to remind Frenchie that you have a real job and can't fuck all night."

"
Watch yourself, Marc, you're crossing a line."

"Or what?" He stood, straightened his tie in the reflection of the glass, and grinned at her direction. "Don't make empty threats, Mori. I'm not the one who has everything to lose. I'll see you tonight at dinner."

She glared at his back, conscious that an office with a door didn't equal privacy. Self-doubt crept in on silent paws to claw at her fragile confidence.

An envelope had been placed at the center of her desk with only her name scrawled across the front in large, flowing letters.
She opened it and shook out the contents. More photographs, but not of mysterious figures on motorcycles. These were of Jacques and Simone together—on red carpets looking elegant, of them in various locations with Kevin and Carter. But then they changed—Simone and Jacques having sex with each other and with others on various beds, always with Simone looking directly into the camera as if starring in a private show. 

But it was the pictures of Jacques looking twenty pounds if not more lighter, bruised, battered, bearded, eyes haunted, that made her want to vomit. In the picture, Simone was draped beneath his arm, holding on to his chest as if he'd been her life preserver.

These were not the vivacious people she had left in Italy. She couldn't look away from the haunted look in their eyes. No note had been included, but she knew who had sent it. This was a preview of what was to come.

Stuffing the pictures into her messenger bag, she fought back the tears. None of this was supposed to be happening. In her dreams—her fantasies—of this moment in her life, she didn't have detectives questioning her about arson or a supermodel threatening to expose the love of her life.

"Don't worry about the detectives." Charlie stood in her doorway.

Her hands froze on the flap of her messenger bag as she forced back the tears. "I'm not. I have nothing to hide so they can ask all the questions they want."

"All of the partners are unified in our faith in you, Jessica. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? No one will blame you."

She hesitated before looking her boss in the face. "I'm fine. We have a lot of work to do."

Marc's words about looking guilty for rushing out of the conference room whispered through her mind.

"I insist." Charlie's smile didn't seem to reach his eyes as he nodded before leaving.

Of course she could be imagining things. Her hands shook on the bag containing the evidence of Jacques' affair with Simone. There had been no note, yet it had been delivered to her office.

Holding the bag to her chest, she turned her chair around to face the windows that looked out over the city toward the Charles River.
Her image superimposed over the glass and she recognized what Marc had meant. She didn't look well.

No matter how strong she pretended to be or what she
had said to Jacques about it not bothering her, seeing those images of him having sex with Simone ripped her heart to shreds. Yes, she had been the one to leave...why didn't that make her feel better?

Just like your mother, you're
letting a man undermine you.

She shook her head, stood abruptly from the chair, and decided to take Charlie up on his offer for an afternoon off.

She paused at Alexa's desk. "There was an envelope on my desk without an address. How did it arrive?"

"It was messengered. Is there a problem?" Alexa looked up from her computer.

Is there a problem? Let me start a goddamn list.
"No, I have it handled. I'm out of the office for the rest of the day. Only call me if it's urgent."

"Like another fire or something?" Alexa's laughter faded when she didn't
receive the expected response. "That wasn't funny. Sorry."

She left without looking back and fought the urge to run and keep on running. Once outside the building, she called Sela.

"Hey, hon, I'm just leaving court. Can I call you back?"

"How soon can you get to my house?"

"You mean before dinner? I don't know, I'm on my way back to the office, I suppose I can get away early. What's up?"

"I need legal advice." She weaved through people on the way to the T. "We need to keep this between us."

Sela hesitated before answering. "Are you in some sort of trouble, Jess?"

"I'm headed down to the T, Sel, I don't want to get into it all over the phone." She adjusted her hold on the bag as she waited for her train. "The sooner the better. I'm headed home now."

"I'll text you when I'm on my way."

She disconnected the call without responding. She'd never been one to think in terms of doomed or cursed, but she suddenly felt like the Moriarty women were destined to always choose between love or success. Her mother had chosen love and had been destroyed by it. Her grandmother had chosen a career in law, had been a judge. She
had never truly known her grandfather because he had died young leaving her grandmother to raise her children alone.

Alone.

She found a seat on the subway train and focused on a distant spot on the wall. Maybe there was a curse no one had told her. After all, they were Irish. Didn't the Irish believe in curses? She frowned, trying to remember any childhood stories about trolls or fairies gone bad in her family tree.

Once on her block, she decided to go in the through the alley to check on her motorcycle. That image had looked too much like her bike to ignore. Even though she knew she hadn't lost her mind in the past forty-eight hours and knew damn well who she
had been with and what she'd been doing, she needed to satisfy her curiosity.

She flicked on the light in the small garage and grimaced at the layers of dust covering boxes she hadn't opened in years. Adjusting the messenger bag across her body, she moved along the edges of her bike. It looked just like she'd left it.

Her gaze drifted across the shelves and across the floor. A black hoodie peeked out from behind a box.

She didn't own a black hooded jacket.

Holding her breath, she pulled it down. Heavy work gloves fell out of the rolled up jacket.

She backed up and collided with her bike. Heartbeat slammed
against her ribcage like a pinball machine that had just won the jackpot.

Someone wanted her to go down for the arson. She kic
ked at the gloves with her high-heeled foot and grimaced. If she touched it, she'd smell like gas.

None of this made sense. She'd gotten the promotion on Friday, she was a nobody, an architect for God's sake.

Dizzy, she leaned heavily against the wall.

A glass pipe also stuck out from the shelf. She squinted at it, wondering about the correlation, but didn't touch it.

But how did they get her bike out of the garage? Maybe it hadn't been her bike. Maybe the hoodie was just an old sweatshirt she'd forgotten about. It's not like she had cleaned the place out in years. Perhaps paranoia was getting the best of her.

The headache that had begun hours ago now pulsated behind her eyes.
She double-checked the locks on the garaged door. No sign of forced entry. She shook it. Locked it again. Gulping back the panic, she kicked the jacket and gloves beneath a box before walking up the stone steps leading into her building. The lock there also appeared undamaged.

She walked up the stairs to her apartment, weary from the day and dreading the dinner tonight.
Thoughts swirled through her ravaged brain as she kicked off her high-heels and pulled her blouse free of her skirt.